Forty Seven Years North Of Havana

Poetry

I rushed to this place of beginnings to trap these words
Before they dissipate into the Sunday dusk.
Love was breathing on me all day, walking side by
side, as I wondered around the roads you carved
Onto the white matter that had not produced one
Memorable story, till God introduced us to each other.

Can I talk to you about loss? I can only mention this
Since finding your picture next to mine on an altar
Revealed the truth of my condition: wounded heart,
Born wanting sweetness not grown in the region
I was reared. The kind of loss not based on a having
or a loosing, but an always, a never, a darkness.

Can I talk to you about loneliness? The type experienced
In the company of others, shared over decades of empty
Gestures and unfulfilled promises, bred in regret,
Hidden behind a smile and the accommodating touch
I learned to demand and receive for no apparent reason
Other than a convenience exchanged in time and space.

Can I talk to you about fear? The suffocating kind, familiar,
Constant. The one deciding that venturing outside isn’t right.
It predicts that around each corner, a darker alley lies. And
When you make a run for it, it blows out the light lighting
The tentative path you long studied and planned, as the way
Leading back to possibilities that feel deserving at times.

Can I talk to you about time? I am becoming its friend—
Recognizing the generous ways it allows the rebirth
Of a fate we believed had been abandoned, left for dead.
Destiny can not be lost in the never-ending circling
Of the minute hand, it is made truth and blessing now,
inspiration, present-moment shared and realized.

Can I talk to you about love? Just a reminder of sorts:
Each time it opens my heart, out pours patience and grace,
With the kindness and belief that bears all things worthy. Hopeful,
Enduring love, devoid of arrogance or envy. Newly born
Into the eternal space we occupy today. Faithful lovers,
Here to manifest the gods’ perfect creation. Nothing less.

Like this:

Inconclusive thoughts
And convictions. Unfinished
Building of character. The job
Not yet completed.
The slippery task of defining
My life, escaping again
Through fingers of frost.
As I speed through
This hazy early morning of thought,
I see rain, and then,
The slow lifting of ancient fog.

I was invited by my good friend–and singer/songwriter extraordinaire–Andy Marino, to read my work at this venue. I call these poems Attempts @ Poetry. They’re love poems written for a woman I’ve loved for 17 years. Or maybe it’s a thousand years, I lose count. Her name is Viola. She washed ashore on my island one day…

I was born on the Western end of Cuba but I've lived 75% of my days in this place, north of the Mason-Dixon Line, feeling surprisingly at home, I should add. This may have to do with my long-held suspicion -- confirmed by a dream many years ago -- that I had been a New Englander in a previous life.

I started Cubiyanqui to share my creative efforts and other interests with my friends and the rest of the world. I never suspected that it would take over so much of my life, but hey, I manage. (And if you visit and the date of the last post is older than a week, you'll know that I ain't managing that well).